


"wept"

by Batik



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Canon Divergence - The Reichenbach Fall, Episode: s02e03 The Reichenbach Fall, First Kiss, First Time, Frottage, M/M, Post Reichenbach, Reichenbach, three times
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-08-08
Updated: 2013-08-08
Packaged: 2017-12-22 19:38:24
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 6,582
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/917270
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Batik/pseuds/Batik
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Three times Sherlock wept, and one time John did.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This got its start with an Antidiogenes conversation in December 2012. I had no fic ideas waiting to happen and decided to word war something that let me continue the conversation’s humor by contributing a specific last line when it came time to share.
> 
> Then my beta, [Nichellen](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Nichellen/pseuds/Nichellen), read all the lines that came before that last one and said, “More!” What I had figured would be a one-off, 600-word thing (with the vague possibility of trying for a “four or five times Sherlock …”-type thing) has, with her ongoing and patient encouragement — and some timely encouragement from [lestradesexwife](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Lestradesexwife/pseuds/Lestradesexwife) and [hiddenlacuna](http://archiveofourown.org/users/HiddenLacuna/pseuds/HiddenLacuna) at the midway point — evolved into 6,600+ words of mild short-lived angst and hopefully not as mild smut.
> 
> It is my first official chapter fic — and it only took me 8 months to finish!

It was all a magic trick.

It was.

Sherlock knew this, knew he was still among the living, just as he knew he had never been in any real physical danger from the fall.

Still, the buried emotions he’d had to tap to make his performance believable were powerful and, while his body was unscathed, his mind was shattered by the tendrils of feeling that clung to him like smoke.

They lingered even after he had removed his blood-soaked clothes, showered, very deliberately shielded his physical self in dark jeans, a T-shirt and a hooded jumper and then wrapped himself in the even heavier defense that was his new coat — one that was more than adequate, even if it wasn’t his Belstaff.

Mycroft could sense Sherlock’s tension, but he respected his younger brother’s silence with little more than a raised eyebrow as he shuffled him into the waiting car — black, expensive, anonymous — for the trip to the safe house.

They had a plan. Sherlock knew what was coming and was prepared to do what was necessary. No contact with anyone other than Mycroft beyond this point. No returning to London before Moriarty’s mess — and it was a mess — had been wiped clean from the face of the Earth.

Sherlock stared out the tinted window of the Mercedes, his eyes blank and emotionless. What would have been an award-winning performance had his audience been anyone other than Mycroft masked the tumult of feelings darting through his mind, prodding his chest and skittering along veins and nerve endings just beneath the surface of his skin.

It was taking every bit of his 2 square metres of skin to contain his internal war, he thought, the scientist in him swimming to the surface only briefly before again plunging beneath a tidal wave of emotion.

He hadn’t noticed that the car had pulled into a garage, the garage door shutting behind it, until Mycroft was speaking.

“Go in,” Mycroft said. “It’s safe. You’re clear. I believe you’ll find everything you need inside.”

Barely glancing at Mycroft, Sherlock nodded slightly, climbed numbly from the car, straightened his shoulders and strode to the door linking the garage and the main house.

He wanted to pause, to hesitate, knowing that stepping through the door would finalize the “official” result of his jump. Until his foot crossed the threshold and the door latched behind him, he was still able to get back in the car with Mycroft, return to St. Bart’s, work out another way.

Instead, Sherlock didn’t allow even a twitch to interrupt the smooth movement of his hand — a twitch would have been all Mycroft needed to see the truth and try to stop him — as he turned the knob.

The door opened readily, and Sherlock stepped inside and closed the door behind him without so much as a glance backward. He felt his shoulders flex at the click of the latch and fought to keep them from sagging as he took a deep, steadying breath.

Then he raised his head and saw.

The tendrils of emotion he’d been fighting to contain until he could be alone turned into ribbons into ropes and, without realizing he’d taken a step — let alone three long ones — he found himself on his knees in the middle of the room, arms wrapped tightly around John.

With Sherlock’s face buried in the front of John’s jumper, one of John’s hands buried in his curls and the other solid across his shoulders, the floodgate opened, allowing relief to mingle with the fear and pain and loneliness that had come before.

And Sherlock wept.


	2. Chapter 2

“Dr. Watson. … John.”

“Sod off, Mycroft.”

The words were clear, no mistaking their meaning, despite the tears that clogged John’s throat. John’s left hand clenched and unclenched at his side. It was all he could do not to throw a punch to dislodge the unemotional mask Mycroft wore even now. It wasn’t the only reason he had for wanting to hit the bastard, but it would do.

“John, I need you to come with me. We need to talk, and this is not the place.”

“I can’t imagine anyone I’d want to talk to less at this point.” John practically spat out the words.

“You’re angry,” Mycroft said.

“I’m sorry we can’t all control our emotions as well as you do,” John said. “Some of us actually have them.”

John scrubbed the heel of his hand across his cheekbone, wiping futilely at the tears that kept coming. Regret teased at the edges of his mind for just a second, his remarks too similar to comments he’d so recently hurled at Sherlock for him to avoid flinching at their memory.

_“You machine.”_ John knew Sherlock deserved that verbal jab so much less than Mycroft, and he felt a fresh flare of anger as he recalled Mycroft’s meddling in the whole Moriarty mess.

“John, I assure you, I am not unaffected,” Mycroft said, leaning a bit more heavily on his umbrella. “I will mourn my brother’s death in my own way, in my own time. But I need you to come with me.”

“Why should I? This is as much your fault as Moriarty’s,” John accused, his gaze unflinching as he met Mycroft’s. “He wouldn’t have been able to do the damage he did without the information you gave him. Tell me, did you serve tea with it?”

Mycroft shifted minutely, the only indication that John’s words might have stung.

“You are not in command of all the facts,” Mycroft said with a sigh. “I’m asking, not ordering. Please, John.”

The rare “please” managed to filter through the haze of John’s pain and he gave the slightest of nods, throwing a glance over his shoulder at the closed morgue doors as he trailed behind Mycroft down the hospital corridor.

John knew there was nothing more he could do for Sherlock, but the idea of leaving the hospital made his stomach roil. He swallowed down his bile as he exited the building. He climbed into the usual black Mercedes ahead of Mycroft and let the door be closed behind them.

As he sank into the leather upholstery, John let his head fall back, closed his eyes and felt the adrenalin that had been holding together his frayed edges drain away. He wasn’t up to a meeting with Mycroft. He really just wanted to crawl into bed, pull the duvet over his head and not come out. Possibly ever.

“Sherlock’s not dead, John.”

Those words brought a fresh dose of adrenalin and John’s head shot up as his eyes flew open.

“Explain.” John ground out the single word between clenched teeth, fighting down the hope that spiked in his chest.

“My brother is not dead, John,” Mycroft repeated, settling more comfortably into his own seat and crossing his legs. “I’m sorry for any pain the events of the past hour have caused.”

“You …,” John let the sentence fade, unable to come up with a word for Mycroft that would suitably convey his thoughts at the moment, even taking into consideration his military background. Fine. He’d keep it simple.

“Explain … faster.”

“Sherlock realized Moriarty’s plan has many layers and spans continents,” Mycroft said. “It’s not just London and the Crown Jewels. But his knowledge was a threat. Moriarty threatened you, Mrs. Hudson and Lestrade. Hence, the hitmen on Baker Street. The only way for Sherlock to ensure your safety was to remove himself from the picture. Or to appear to.”

John shook his head, incredulous.

“So, he faked his death in the most visible way possible, with me as a witness?” John asked. “Did he ever consider letting me in on his plan?”

“Your knowing could have put your life at even greater risk,” Mycroft replied. “He didn’t want to take that chance. He needed honest emotion from you at St. Bartholomew’s, to make it believable. He — both of you — were being closely watched, and the slightest misstep would have led to a trigger being pulled. Three of them.”

John took a deep breath as he let this sink in.

“Why are you telling me now? Doesn’t that mean I’m still a target? Doesn’t that mean all of this, this performance, was wasted? And, if he’s not dead, Where. Is. Sherlock?”

“He is at the morgue,” Mycroft said, answering what he knew was the most important question first. “He’s fine, but he needs to get cleaned up before he can make his escape. Dr. Hooper is helping him.”

John tensed at that, worried for Molly’s safety, until Mycroft went on.

“Dr. Hooper was not a specified target. Sherlock sought her help for precisely that reason.”

“OK,” John said slowly, a touch of doubt still coloring his words. “What now? Am I expected to go back to Baker Street and pretend to mourn, just forget Sherlock existed — I assume his plan is to disappear? I could mourn his absence, but I can’t, I won’t lie to Mrs. Hudson.”

“Sherlock’s plan is to disappear, yes,” Mycroft said carefully. “His intent was to keep you in the dark, keep you safe.”

“But …” John voiced what he heard in Mycroft’s tone.

“I saw you today, John. If I had any lingering doubts about your … commitment ... to my brother or how far you’d go to protect him, I have none now. He’s still in danger. As much as he’s determined to take down Moriarty’s syndicate on his own, he needs help. Pride won’t let him accept my help beyond absolute necessity.”

“So, what? I disappear with him?”

“Yes, if you’re amenable.”

“Right.” John squared his shoulders and lifted his chin, feeling a muscle in his jaw flex with the move. His left hand, which had been resting on his thigh, clenched and unclenched once before he looked Mycroft in the eye and spoke again.

“Tell me how.”

∞ ∞ ∞ ∞ ∞

Two hours later, John was standing at a door linking a garage to a safe house at which Mycroft had had him deposited. He had been dropped off initially at Baker Street, where he packed an overnight bag and left a note apologizing to Mrs. Hudson, explaining that he couldn’t deal with Sherlock’s “loss” and needed to get away for a while. He then took a cab to the St. Pancras train station, where another black sedan had been waiting to take him to the safe house.

As John entered the otherwise empty house, he sat his bag on a chair and began a quick check from room to room, familiarizing himself with the layout and the placement of escape routes such as windows and doors.

He had just returned to the living room when he heard the garage door open and close. Then a car door. He turned as the door he’d entered just a few minutes earlier opened and the man John had last seen covered in blood stepped through.

John had just a moment to look at Sherlock, to take in the bowed head, the resignation that flicked through his posture as the door’s latch clicked into place. He felt relief flood his body as his eyes finally confirmed Mycroft’s words and he knew, absolutely, that Sherlock was alive.

He didn’t speak. Didn’t try to. Instead, he felt the beat of his heart, the throb of his pulse in his veins as he waited.

John watched as Sherlock raised his head and their eyes locked. He didn’t have time to speak before Sherlock moved, taking three long strides and covering the distance between them.

As Sherlock fell to his knees and wrapped long arms around John, John carded one hand into his curls and wrapped the other around his shoulders, holding tightly, not quite sure in that moment if he was the anchor or was being anchored, but suspecting it was both.


	3. Chapter 3

“I thought ... I … I had _lost_ you.”

Sherlock’s voice was quiet and a bit broken, but, between the silence of the house and the depth of his tone, he knew it had carried to John’s ears.

“I believe that’s my line,” John replied with a slight laugh. It was a poor attempt if he had been trying to lighten the mood, because he succeeded only in sounding just as emotionally wrung out as Sherlock felt.

Sherlock slowly shifted his head away from John’s abdomen and relaxed his grip, not letting go but giving himself just enough room to look up into blue eyes. John’s grip also relaxed, though he kept one hand on Sherlock’s shoulder. The other Sherlock felt untangle from his curls and slide down to cup his jawline, John grazing his thumb across the traces of dampness lingering on his cheek.

Sherlock tried to speak again, only to have his voice crack. He was alive, but not. He had let John go only to get him back so much sooner than he’d ever dared to consider.

Thankfully, John was, well, John. John, who had always known how to fix it when Sherlock’s mind faltered and he began to shut down.

Now, he loosened Sherlock’s grip on his waist and pulled him to his feet.

“Come on,” John said gently. “The kitchen’s stocked. Tea, I think, and food, even if you’re not hungry. Then talk. Mycroft explained quite a bit, but you can fill in the gaps.”

His mind still seemed to Sherlock to be spinning out of control, but it registered that John was sliding his fingers from Sherlock’s as he turned. Instinct, more than any conscious thought, led Sherlock to tighten his grip, to fight against even the briefest of separations.

“OK,” John said, shifting his body back toward Sherlock and tightening his hold as he met Sherlock’s gaze. “I’m not going anywhere. Not without you.”

Sherlock searched John’s face, noting with familiar amazement that John’s gaze never faltered. What he saw there — faith and intent and a warmth he couldn’t quite catalogue — helped him to decide, soothed his mind and allowed him to release the steady hand in his. Still, as John turned toward the kitchen, Sherlock fell into step beside him, not even a half-pace behind and close enough that their arms brushed together as they moved.

Despite John’s words, Sherlock still wasn’t sure of the expiry date on his promise not to go. Would it last for the moment, until John’s curiosity was satisfied? Or was it something more?

Sherlock knew which was the more logical option, the safer option — and which one he wanted.

∞ ∞ ∞ ∞ ∞

It was late, Sherlock was exhausted — he admitted to himself that sleep would be welcome — and John was also showing signs that the day was catching up to him, even as he listened closely while Sherlock told him.

Everything.

They sat on the sofa, Sherlock’s back against one arm, his legs pulled up and his arms wrapped around them. The position helped him contain his frayed parts as he spoke. It also helped him resist the magnetic pull between his bare toes and John’s denim-clad thigh that rested just inches away as John sat next to him, one foot on the floor and the other folded under him with his body twisted to face Sherlock.

Sherlock explained Moriarty’s plan. He explained Mycroft’s role and how his brother hadn’t betrayed him so much as, for once, done exactly what Sherlock had asked of him. He explained the death threats to John, Mrs. Hudson and Lestrade, and how he and Molly had faked his death to protect them. How he was leaving in the morning for Belgium, both disappearing for the sake of his “death” and taking the first step in tracking down the remaining chunks of Moriarty’s criminal masterpiece.

“Are we flying or going by train?”

“Train.” It was the first John had spoken since Sherlock had begun his explanation, and Sherlock responded automatically, only realizing after he spoke that John had said “we” instead of “you.”

“John, you don’t have to go,” he added quickly. “You can go back to Baker Street. You’ll be safer there. Mycroft confirmed before I left the morgue that Moriarty’s hitmen have gone — packed up and went before my body would have been cold. What I’m about to do is dangerous.”

“And here I am,” John replied, his tone serious and brooking no argument. “You’re not doing this without me. When I said I wasn’t going anywhere, I meant it. I’m not going anywhere without you. When the time comes, we’ll return home to Baker Street together.”

Sherlock stayed silent, feeling the lingering tension in his body fade and overruling the part of his mind that still said he should try harder to make John stay behind when he left. The truth was, as much as he wanted to protect John, he knew he could use his help. Even more, he simply wanted John with him, wherever that was.

“For now, it’s late, it’s been a long day, and tomorrow doesn’t promise to be any shorter,” John said. “We should sleep. Both bedrooms are upstairs.”

Sherlock started to speak, but he didn’t get a chance.

“I don’t want to hear that you’re not tired,” John cut him off. “No one, not even you, could get through this day without being tired. It’s a testament to your stamina that you haven’t fallen asleep where you sit.”

“John,” Sherlock tried again, pulling his legs closer to his chest as he tried to figure out how to verbalize what he was feeling. It wasn’t something with which he had much experience.

 

“The whole time I was planning my death, I kept thinking about the fact that I would be losing you, walking away from you,” he said. “I’m not opposed to sleep, but ...”

John, who had stood up from the sofa as he spoke, met Sherlock’s gaze as he took his hands for the third time that day and gently tugged, encouraging him to stand.

“I’m a bit shaky on that front, too,” John admitted with a small laugh. “You don’t have to, but the beds are big enough, if you want to share.”

Sherlock had had his eyes locked on John from the moment John tugged him from the sofa and, while John’s words were harmless enough, Sherlock was sure he saw an expression of something more flit across John’s face. It was enough to make something deep in his chest respond, though he tamped it down.

“John,” he said, casting aside his preferred response. “I value your friendship too much to risk losing it by doing something we’ll regret when we’re no longer running on adrenalin and sentiment.”

John’s eyebrows rose a fraction before his head dipped in a nod — or was it a shake of disbelief?

“You really aren’t too bright about some things, are you, Sherlock?” John’s words could have stung, but the smile that slowly grew as he spoke took the edge off. “I didn’t mean ‘share a bed’ in the biblical sense. I meant we could both sleep — sleep — in the same bed, just to assure each other that we’re still here.”

“Oh,” Sherlock said, feeling heat begin to suffuse his face.

“But if you ever want to share my bed in the biblical sense, or have me share yours, it wouldn’t be anything I’d come to regret,” John said, taking a step into Sherlock’s personal space and removing his hands from Sherlock’s to slide them up Sherlock’s arms.

Then Sherlock felt John’s hand wrap around his neck — when had he closed his eyes? — and he lowered his head to meet warm lips as they found his.

As kisses go, it was amazing, despite its simplicity, in spite of it, because of it, Sherlock thought.

John’s touch was gentle, a mere brush of skin on skin as their lips met for the first time. Sherlock tried to catalogue it all, in case John decided he had made a mistake and it never happened again. He noted the slight dampness of the kiss, a blending of the humidity of their breath in such close proximity and the lingering moisture from the moment just before when John had reflexively darted his tongue over dry lips.

Sherlock noted the texture of John’s lips, a bit chapped but otherwise gentler than lips had any right to be when they were part and parcel of such a strong man. He noted the tingle of electricity that sparked to life at the contact, spreading out in fine but direct lines to his head, his heart, his crotch.

John wasn’t trying to deepen the kiss, perhaps satisfied simply that a connection had been made. Even so, Sherlock thought, it was the emotional equivalent of a locked-room murder — seemingly impossible and infinitely fascinating.

Sherlock was debating whether to push for that deeper connection when he felt John pull back and sigh. After a moment’s pause to be sure he had all the sensations safely organized and tucked away in the part of his mind reserved for John-related matters, Sherlock straightened a bit and opened his eyes.

“No regrets, Sherlock,” John said gently, meeting Sherlock’s gaze as one hand slid along Sherlock’s jawline and his thumb brushed across Sherlock’s lips. “I promise.”

For a moment Sherlock felt as if the heat in John’s eyes was going to singe him around his edges. Then it faded as John spoke again.

“But, for now, we need sleep.”

Another peck of a kiss — so quickly rendered that Sherlock didn’t have time to close his eyes — and John reached out to grab his bag from the nearby chair before grasping Sherlock’s hand and leading him toward the stairs.


	4. Chapter 4

Sherlock wept, tears staining his face and desperation tingeing his voice as it shattered over his words.

“Let John go. I’ll, I’ll do … whatever you want. Just let him go.”

The man in front of him — who went by Chadworth, though that wasn’t his real name — laughed and made a gloating comment about Sherlock being “weak and emotional.”

Sherlock, jaw clenched, didn’t respond to the remark, though a small sob rumbled up from his throat and escaped into the chill of the air. “Please.”

“Now you’re using that smart mouth of yours to say something worthwhile,” Chadworth said, waving a dismissive hand in John’s direction.

The small-time thug holding the gun to John’s skull let it drop at the signal from his partner in crime — the obvious “brains” of the operation. Even Clarke was smart enough to know it wouldn’t do to accidentally kill their leverage.

It was exactly the result Sherlock expected and all the opening John needed to make his move. As Sherlock leveled a powerful kick at Chadworth’s hand — the one holding the gun on him — he saw in his peripheral vision as John came up with a closed backhand to Clarke’s chin.

In seconds, it was over. John now had the gun that had been trained on him aimed instead at his “guard,” and Chadworth was out cold on the concrete-slab flooring.

“You OK, Sherlock?”

“Yes, John.” Sherlock cleared his throat and dried his eyes with the pad of a thumb, the earlier indications of his emotional distress evaporating as if they’d never been. “I won’t complain this time but, sometimes, they really are so easy.”

Sherlock’s slight smile at that thought held for a moment. It began to fade as the grey of the warehouse gave way to the blackness of a brick-lined tunnel illuminated only by the glow of a fire in a rubbish bin.

In the gloom, he could pick out the silhouettes of John and Sarah, bound, with Sarah flinching away from the business end of an arrow aimed to do maximum damage.

“Please,” John said, his voice tinged with desperation as he continued to fight to save Sarah. “I’m not Sherlock Holmes.”

“I don’t believe you.” General Shan’s voice set Sherlock’s hair on end, crawling up his spine and jabbing at the base of his skull.

“You should, you know.” Sherlock spoke up, making his presence known. But it was too late.

The last thread of rope finally frayed and the arrow went flying. At the same time, John struggled free and dived to shield Sarah.

Sherlock gasped and, just as the arrow zeroed in on John’s heart, found himself standing on the pavement outside St. Bart’s. He was holding a phone and listening, his eyes glued to the roofline.

“I have to do this, Sherlock. I have to keep you safe.”

“No, John. You _don’t_ have to do this. You _can’t_ do this — you don’t know the magic trick. _You don’t know_ the magic trick.”

Then Sherlock was lying at the edge of the roof of the building, arm stretched over the side and holding desperately to a hand, John’s hand. John was dangling over the side, struggling against Sherlock’s grip.

“Let me fall, Sherlock. Let me save you.”

“No, John. I should be the one to fall. I’m the one who put you in danger. I’m the one who should fix it.”

Sherlock tightened his grip, earning a grunt from John as the bones in his hand let their discomfort be known.

“It’s OK, Sherlock. It’s OK. It’s OK.”

Sherlock screamed as John pried his hand free and began to fall.


	5. Chapter 5

Sherlock screamed as John pried his hand free and began to fall.

Suddenly, Sherlock felt hands on his shoulders and jerked at the sensation, the movement jolting him into wakefulness as the dream faded away with John mid-air and waving up at him.

He lay there for a moment in the pre-dawn semi-darkness, trying to make his mind comprehend John sitting up and looking down at him instead. He blinked … then jerked as upright as he could with John so close, wrapping his arms around him and pulling him in tight, burying his nose in a strong shoulder.

“Hey, it’s all right,” John soothed, wrapping his arms just as securely around Sherlock. “You’re here. We’re here. We’re OK.”

A few long moments passed before Sherlock loosened his grip just enough to pull back and look at John again, his eyes adjusting to the low light and devouring John’s features. He needed to assure himself on a primal level that it was John — right down to the way fine lines cut their path around his eyes, his nose, his mouth.

John’s mouth.

Sherlock’s mouth had been dried by sleep and horror, but the sudden recollection of a kiss shared just hours earlier changed that, and he crushed his lips to John’s, not to hurt but to claim. He felt John’s resistance only for a moment — surprise, not distaste — before John opened his mouth beneath Sherlock’s and invited him in.

Unlike the gentle kiss of earlier, this one was soul-searing, and Sherlock had the vague thought that he wouldn’t mind having his heart burned out, if this were how it happened. He wouldn’t mind being entirely consumed by flames if John’s mouth fed the conflagration, as it was now.

Sherlock realized he was powerless to stop it. Didn’t want to stop it.

As closely as he was holding John, it wasn’t close enough, and Sherlock snaked his hands under the T-shirt in which John had been sleeping, long fingers spreading wide as he sought ever more contact.

Instead of skin, there was only confusion as Sherlock felt John pull away. He moved to tighten his hold, only to have John still his hands in a gentle but firm grasp. He wanted to search John’s face for clues to what he was thinking but found he was afraid to know; instead, he closed his eyes and let his head fall back against his pillow.

“Stupid, stupid, stupid,” he bit out, now unable to look at John. He managed an “I’m sorry” before freeing one hand and flinging the back of it over his still-closed eyes to ensure he didn’t look. He couldn’t bear to see rejection on John’s face, and it would only take a glimpse for him to read every syllable of whatever carefully worded speech John was about to make.

“Sherlock. … Sherlock, look at me.”

When did John get cruel? Was this payback for yesterday? Making him look, knowing he’d see?

“Sherlock. Love.”

It took a moment for the endearment to penetrate Sherlock’s humiliation. Then he lowered his hand and opened his eyes, slowly bringing his gaze up to meet John’s.

What he read there took his breath away, because it wasn’t rejection. It was .. it was everything. John wanted everything. John wanted him.

“Then why have you stopped me?” The words came out more lost than he had hoped, but he found he didn’t care.

“Because it would have been over too soon,” John said, reclaiming Sherlock’s now unoccupied hand and brushing his lips over its knuckles. “I want this to last. I want to imprint my DNA on you so thoroughly that you’re never completely able to remove it. I want you to do the same to me. Most of all, I don’t want you to associate what’s about to happen with the nightmare you were just having. This is just us.”

“Then kiss me. Please,” Sherlock breathed, locking his gaze with John’s.

John released Sherlock’s hands and lowered himself over Sherlock’s body, one of his hands bracing his descent beside Sherlock’s head and the other moving to angle Sherlock’s jaw until their lips met.

If the intensity of the earlier kiss was a funeral pyre, Sherlock thought, this one was the white-hot intensity of charcoal, no longer dancing with obviously threatening flames but smouldering with a heat — almost innocent-looking — that quietly laid waste to his every defense, scorching him from the inside out.

Sherlock’s mind reached an impasse, torn between wanting to feel John’s body pressed fully to his and not wanting to stop John as he singed nerve endings, trailing kisses along Sherlock’s jaw, down the tendons of his throat, across his clavicle.

Then there were too many clothes in the way of John’s lips and Sherlock scrambled to pull his shirt over his head. His pajama bottoms, for all that they were loosely held on fine hip bones, were suddenly too constricting. How had they not just been incinerated from the heat Sherlock felt flooding his body?

“God, John,” he gasped as he tried to breathe and undo his drawstring’s basic tie at the same time. He barely managed to do either, but succeeded at both enough to tug down his trousers and pants until his cock was free. “I need you. I need you inside me. Curled around my spine, never letting go. Don’t ever let go.”

“I won’t, Sherlock. I have you, and I won’t ever let go,” John growled the promise into Sherlock’s ear before nipping at the lobe and reclaiming his mouth.

John must have been busy with his own pajamas, because Sherlock felt John’s hand bring their cocks together and he arched into the sensation, his hands clutching at John’s bare shoulders, his hair, his hips as he strove to align their bodies as much as possible. He was hard and hot, and he could feel the pressure building.

“Johhhn.” Sherlock registered the whine in his voice the way one would register the whistle of a distant train: It was there, but he couldn’t be arsed to care when John was so much closer and playing his body the way Sherlock played his violin, with skill and passion and tenderness.

“Christ, Sherlock,” John gasped, burying his face in Sherlock’s neck and continuing to work their cocks together in long, firm strokes that pulled both of them closer to the edge. “I want to fill you, make sure you know I’m here and you’re here — that we’re here — and this is real. Nothing has ever been more real than this moment.”

“Lube.”

“... Fuck.”

“Yes.”

“No. … I mean, I don’t have any lube. … I wasn’t expecting …”

“It doesn’t matter. Don’t need it.”

Yes, we do. I’m not going to risk hurting you.”

Sherlock’s need was quickly reaching the point of no return and he suspected John’s erection was starting to border on painful.

“John.”

It wasn’t his best argument — though it was stunning in its concomitant simplicity and grandeur — but it was the singular argument his brain could process at that moment. It did not sway John, who offered up his own argument, one punctuated by kisses and nibbles and, in between, an unwavering gaze.

“I promise, Sherlock,” he said. _(Kiss/stroke)_ One day very soon, I will have more lube on hand than most couples would use in a month. _(Nibble)_ And I will use it to slide my cock as far into your arse as possible. Then I will break _(kiss)_ you _(kiss)_ down _(suck to oh-god-that-feels-good-how-do-you-do-that-with-just-your-lips)_ to your most basic parts and rebuild you from the remnants.”

Sherlock would have spoken — his brain was trying to form words, really — but as John grunted out the last syllable of “remnants,” he tightened his grip on their cocks, slid his hand upward and gave a slight twist.

Sherlock was falling for the second time in 24 hours. But this time it was a plunge awash with sensation, one that sent his mind into freefall before catching him on an updraft and leaving him to drift in a colour-washed cloud of newly forming galaxies.

A few moments later, Sherlock still lay gasping for air, his body trembling as he slowly came down from the high of the orgasm he’d just shared with John. John, who was curled around him, continuing to shelter and protect him, even through their post-orgasmic haze.

A tear slid silently from the corner of one eye, a confused blend of more happiness than Sherlock could recall having experienced and his lingering terror — suddenly even more intense — at the idea of losing John.

Sherlock let the fingers of one hand trail over John’s bare skin and the other entwine with John’s as he struggled to rein in his emotions and sort them. Then he tightened his grip and spoke three little words — soft, deep, weighted by everything they meant for his relationship with John.

“You can’t come.”

“Too late, love,” John murmured, his voice lazy with affection as he trailed a finger through the evidence smeared across Sherlock’s abdomen.

“No, you can’t come with me to Belgium.”

“Like hell I can’t.”

John clearly wasn’t taking him seriously, his voice and body still relaxed.

“I can’t bear to lose you,” Sherlock said, his voice taking on urgency as he tried to convince John that he was right. “I don’t yet know how I’ll make it without you, but I can’t bear the thought of putting you in harm’s way. It’s not too late for you to go back to Baker Street. You’ll be safe there.”

That got John’s attention and Sherlock was immediately beset by a mix of relief and regret, because John was no longer curled around him, warm and secure, but sitting up next to him and staring at him. Sherlock flinched at the sharpness in John’s gaze but didn’t look away.

“I wasn’t going to let you do this alone six hours ago, when we were just flatmates and friends,” John said, easily wielding an air of command despite his nudity and a lock of hair — adorable — that Sherlock had unintentionally teased into standing straight up. “Do you honestly think I would let you walk out the door alone after what we just shared?”

“I have to try, John.”

“Fine. You’ve tried. You failed. We go together or neither of us goes.”

“But …”

“Sherlock, no. Just, no.”

“Fine.” Sherlock bit out the word with a mix of grudging concession and not insubstantial relief. “But if you die, I’ll never forgive you.”

“I wouldn’t think of it,” John said, relaxing again into Sherlock’s slightly morbid sense of humor and into his embrace. Sherlock felt John’s grin tug at the corners of his mouth where it rested on Sherlock’s chest. “I doubt the sex can compare in the afterlife — and some serious questions have been raised about the tea.”

Sherlock started to let out a huff of pretend indignation at the implication that tea might be more important to John than he was, but he found himself yawning instead. A bit not good when John had proved his observational skills on so many occasions. Three, two …

“Get some sleep, love.” John’s voice had lost its teasing tone and gone soft with affection, wrapping around Sherlock as clearly as if John had pulled the duvet up to his chin and tucked it under his shoulders.

“Only because you’ll be here when I wake.”

“Glad we finally have that sorted,” John sighed with mock impatience before pressing a kiss to Sherlock’s bare chest.

Sherlock settled deeper into the bedding, pulled John closer and gave himself up sleep, unsure what was to come but finally certain he would no longer face it alone, no longer needed to face it alone.


	6. Epilogue

Their nap was all too short and the alarm they had set the night before went off all too soon. But they had showers to grab — sharing was not going to speed the process — and a train to catch. Their arrival at St. Pancras was timed to coincide with the rush, relying on the crowd to render them invisible.

Once off the Tube, Sherlock and John split up, Sherlock heading for the ticket machine to confirm their online reservations and John in search of breakfast. He passed on the full English at Patisserie Valerie’s in favor of grilled croissants and a cream tea to share. He met up with Sherlock in the Eurostar lounge, not bothering to hide his smile as he took in the lithe grace still evident beneath the new posture Sherlock had adopted for this leg of their journey.

Sherlock, as if he realized he was being watched, raised his head and watched John’s approach, his gaze turning analytical before he returned the smile with a gentle one of his own.

“A little side trip, then?”

“You knew I was getting breakfast.” John held up the take-away carton and drink carrier to help make his point.

“That isn’t why you’re smiling,” Sherlock teased. “The Boots bag in your inner jacket pocket is the more likely suspect in this case.”

“Boots was right around the corner from Val’s,” John said, just a slight flush of pink beginning to tinge his cheeks. “I’m sure they have lube in Belgium, but I figured I’d save us a visit to the chemist’s later.”

John instinctively licked his lips as Sherlock’s eyes darkened, but whatever retort Sherlock was about to make was cut off by the tannoy announcing the arrival of their train, and Sherlock grabbed his bag before taking his drink from John and turning toward the platform gates.

A few minutes later their carry-on bags had been stowed and they were ensconced in seats at the back of the first-class carriage, where they had a clear view of the space and its other occupants, the nearest of whom was far enough away to be out of earshot if they kept their voices soft as Sherlock filled in John on this part of their trip.

Sherlock paused in his discussion of the case as the train sighed and began to roll away from the platform.

“It’s an odd feeling to be leaving London, not knowing when we’ll be back. If we’ll be back.”

John reached for Sherlock’s hand and wrapped it in his, brushing his thumb over pale knuckles in an imitation of a kiss.

“We’re not leaving London, Sherlock. We’re just taking the long way home.”


End file.
